


You Saw Me Standing Alone

by yeah_alright



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/F, I think?, Inspired by Jenny Slate's Stage Fright, Magical Realism, No Smut, references to masturbation and sex but, whatever you'd call having a relationship with the moon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27767647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeah_alright/pseuds/yeah_alright
Summary: Harry and the moon fall in love.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Harry Styles/The Moon
Comments: 28
Kudos: 23





	You Saw Me Standing Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [disgruntledkittenface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disgruntledkittenface/gifts).



> A few months ago, my friend [Maggie](https://disgruntledkittenface.tumblr.com/) texted me that she was watching Jenny Slate's comedy special, "Stage Fright," and thinking of me, which was already lovely. Then when she got to the end, she followed up with, "Have you seen this?? How have you not written a one shot about making love to the moon???" (needless to say, it's a really good special) and since that moment I've been lowkey obsessed with the idea of doing exactly that. I know she wasn't requesting the fic for herself, but it's still for her. 
> 
> So, my precious Maggu, here she is. I originally considered posting for your birthday, but when I looked up the date of the full moon in November and learned it's called the FULL BEAVER MOON MAGGIE (CAN YOU FUCKING BELIEVE???), I knew it was fated for this night instead. 
> 
> Happy Full Beaver Moon, Marigold. I hope I did you at least a little proud. <3
> 
> Thank you to [Sarah](https://queenofquiet17.tumblr.com/) for reading this and reassuring me with your lovely comments that I hadn't completely lost it. <333
> 
> The title is from the song “Blue Moon” by The Marcels (because how could I not?)

**It started** when Harry was twelve. 

Her family had just moved from Manchester, where she’d grown up, out to the country. Suddenly her summer plans of swimming and slumber parties with all her friends vanished, leaving her alone in a nice but unfamiliar house where the nearest neighbors were miles away, and the school year (and whatever potential new friends it might bring) was months off. 

It started as a joke. A joke with more truth behind it than Harry was willing to admit, but she forced herself to laugh as she said it to help convince herself. It was her fourth night in her brand new room. She’d expected to become more accustomed to the eerie quiet and stillness each night, but so far the opposite had been true. After three nights of reading well past her usual bedtime, until her eyelids grew so heavy she couldn’t keep them open no matter how hard she fought to finish the chapter, she happened to look out the window as she flipped a page and was struck by how big and bright the moon was, and perfectly framed by her window. 

“Goodnight,” she’d whispered, surprising herself. She’d immediately lifted her still-open book to bury her face and giggle between its pages until she composed herself. 

When Harry brought her book down to rest in her lap again, she’d turned sheepishly back to her unexpected companion – her first in days – and had found herself unable to stop smiling. 

Speaking aloud to the moon through her bedroom window had flashed Harry back to her childhood, to her mother reading her “Goodnight, Moon” at bedtime. She’d always indulged Harry’s requests to scamper out from under her covers and run to her window to wish the real moon a proper goodnight just as her mum wished the same to the moon in the book. (It would take Harry another few years to realize her younger self was using that as an excuse to hold off on her mum turning the light out and telling her to go to sleep, and still a few years more to realize that her mum had definitely always known that and was just humoring her.)

As twelve-year-old Harry thought back fondly to her younger self’s bedtime, she remembered, probably for the first time since then, that even after she and her mum had moved on to other bedtime stories – even long after – Harry had continued to wish her friend the moon goodnight. Sometimes she’d sneak out of bed after her mum had closed the door behind her and go to her window, sometimes she’d whisper-shout from under her covers, sure the moon could hear her. 

And even though she never spoke to the moon any other time, even though she didn’t remember ever saying anything other than “goodnight,” she’d felt after not too long that the moon was definitely her mate. Her very good mate, even. 

Harry had never told anyone about her friend in the night sky. She’d just felt somehow that people wouldn’t understand. Maybe her mum might, but she wasn’t absolutely sure, so she didn’t tell even her. 

Eventually, as Harry had begun primary and started making playmates that she spent time with outside of school, her friendship with the moon had gone the way of dummies and cuddly toys and blankies and she’d forgotten all about it. 

But being out in the country that night, lying alone in her room and yearning for her mates back in the city, the moon beaming in through her window almost felt like a best friend checking in on her. At seeing her friend again, suddenly and just when she needed her, a sense of calm washed over Harry. And she remembered that, in her younger years, she had always loved the way the moon hadn’t just felt like it was watching over her as she slept, but that it was actually keeping her company. 

She’d been so grateful to suddenly feel less alone that she’d carefully placed her book mark between the still open pages of her book, set it down on her bedside table, flicked off her lamp, and turned to her side to stare out the window. 

“Hiya, mate. It’s so good to see you.”

Before Harry could feel silly for speaking those words aloud to what she knew from her science books was just a rock in the sky, she was half asleep, maybe just exhausted from her last three nights of staying up late, but definitely at least a little soothed by the familiar face gazing back at her.

She just managed to whisper goodnight one last time before drifting off. 

Over the next few months, the moon was Harry’s most consistent companion. She sent goodnight wishes through her window every night in exchange for the soft glow that helped to lull her to sleep in her new room, growing more familiar and feeling more like home with each passing night. As days turned to weeks that summer, Harry found herself sharing more with her reacquainted mate. Her favorite lines from books she was reading. Detailed descriptions of rolling fields with new types of flowers she’d discovered while exploring the grounds around her house. Musings about how much she enjoyed noticing the subtle shifts in the moon’s size and brightness now that she was paying such close attention. 

By the time the new school year began, Harry was fully convinced that she and the moon were mates once again.

She was relieved to find she made friends just as readily in a tiny school as she always had in her larger schools back in Manchester. But unlike when Harry had been very small, this time her new friendships didn’t lessen what she had with the moon. Unlike before, the excitement and nerves of a new school and the new mates that came with it didn’t make Harry forget who had been there for her – _with_ her – when no one else had been. 

Harry continued sharing bits of herself with the moon, just as she had all summer, telling her (at some point, without noticing really, Harry had come to think of the moon as a her) all about her new friends, her favorite teachers, assignments that were difficult or boring or somehow fun. It continued all year, Harry confiding in the moon the way others might confide in a journal – sharing both the minutiae of everyday life and the sweeping feelings that can consume a newly minted teenager’s entire being. But, unlike every journal Harry had ever written in – even the beautiful and _very_ grown-up leather-bound one her mum had gifted her for Christmas the year before – the moon never felt like a passive recipient of Harry’s thoughts and feelings. She never talked back (of course she didn’t) but it felt to Harry that she was listening somehow. That she actually _enjoyed_ listening to Harry. That she was an active participant in their friendship. Harry could never explain it. But she felt it more certainly than she’d ever felt anything. 

**It changed** when Harry was seventeen.

She didn’t understand why, but the one thing Harry was shy about sharing with the moon were troubles with the boys and girls she liked. Harry wouldn’t exactly keep her crushes or interest a secret from her, but she didn’t share details about anyone she spent time with in any kind of romantic way. She had noticed at some point that something felt different when she did, like the moon wasn’t as comfortable with it somehow? So much of Harry’s relationship with the moon was hard to describe – even hard to understand – but she’d learned years before that following her intuition felt best. So if she ever got a sense that the moon especially appreciated a topic or wasn’t particularly interested or comfortable with another, Harry respected that. 

And talking about what she occasionally got up to with other people that extended past friendship was just one of those things she mostly skirted for that reason. 

So, the night Harry learned her new boyfriend was caught necking Samantha and had shrugged it off like it was no big deal, Harry didn’t tell the moon exactly what had her so upset. She simply cried on her bed until her sadness turned to frustration turned to anger – at stupid Tony but also at herself for crying over stupid Tony – turned finally to restlessness that hovered just above the level of calm that would allow her to sleep.

When her mind had emptied of all thoughts beyond just an exasperated longing to fall asleep and finally put an end to this crappy day, Harry exhaled a dramatic sigh at her ceiling fan and let her head roll to one side, her sleepy gaze falling naturally to her window. 

And there she was. In her full glory, staring back at Harry as brightly as ever, almost as if she wanted to cheer Harry up. Like she wanted to remind Harry that when other people disappointed her or didn’t treat her as well as they ought to, she’d still be here. 

Suddenly Harry felt wide awake, like a jolt of electricity had shot through her. No, not a jolt. A gentle thrum. But it electrified her just the same. 

Maybe it was the sudden sensation. Maybe it was her exhaustion playing tricks on her vision. Whatever the cause, Harry felt like she was looking at her friend anew. There was still a calming sense of familiarity, but something was just different enough to capture her attention and her interest. 

There’s something – a shimmer, maybe? – that Harry can’t quite place, but she knows it’s tied to the thrum she feels in her veins, growing more insistent the longer she stares. 

After a few more moments of curiously staring, it dawns on Harry what the thrumming is. What it means. And though the realization shocks her enough that she draws in a sharp, shallow breath, it doesn’t scare her. 

And it doesn’t stop her from giving in to it. 

Without tearing her eyes away from the moon, possibly without even blinking, Harry moves her hand slowly down her body to the place she’d been exploring shyly but more frequently in the past few years. 

Her gaze intensifies as her fingers near their destination, and though it’s nothing like having another pair of eyes stare back at her, there’s something in the moon’s light – how Harry can swear it's shifting, however subtly – that feels to Harry quite like being regarded. 

And the sensation of being watched – and not at all in secret, but openly, intentionally, and at her own invitation – spurs Harry on. 

It’s not as though Harry has been doing this for that long. She’s never even been all that confident that she does it exactly right. But this time, there’s no doubt. This time, bathing in not just the glow of the moon, but her gaze as well, Harry knows she’s experiencing what people have been trying to describe throughout human history. What some people spend their lives – or at least their younger years – chasing. 

In that moment, bringing herself off in the moonlight, her stare never wavering save for the final moments when she can’t keep herself from squeezing her eyes shut and tossing her head back against the pillow, Harry understands the word ecstasy. 

As her breathing steadies and her eyelids flutter open, Harry turns her head slowly back toward the window. She feels shy at first, unable to even peek at her, but eventually she flicks her eyes over to her moon, needing to reassure herself that she hadn’t made her disappear, and she swears she looks different yet again. Or maybe it’s just that Harry finally knows what to call the shimmer.

It’s blue. 

The softest, most inviting blue Harry’s ever seen, with an intensity she doesn’t understand. If she tried to describe it to someone, she’d fail. It’s not like any other shade of blue Harry’s known before.

She begins to panic, afraid she might never get to experience this blue again – this feeling. But before Harry has a chance to spiral, the shimmer pulses, sending a ripple across the moon’s surface the way light dances across the surface of a calm ocean, and Harry’s panic subsides. 

Just like that, she knows this moment isn’t fleeting. That this feeling the moon has given her isn’t just a gift of this night. It’s the start of something new. 

And while she might expect the resulting exhilaration to keep her awake, instead, with a smile of gratitude and a whispered goodnight, Harry drifts easily off to sleep. 

It’s like that from then on. 

Not just when Harry’s angry or frustrated or having trouble sleeping. And also not every time Harry touches herself. Sometimes she just feels like playing on her own. And sometimes the moon holds her shimmer back, so Harry knows – or least thinks she knows – that she isn’t interested in joining in. But lots of nights find them both wanting the same thing.

The nights when they’re together like that are always good, the pleasure somehow increasing each time. Practice making perfect, Harry supposes. And surely in no small part due to the fact that, every so often, the sensation transforms from being watched by the moon to actually making love to her. 

The first time Harry had realized it, she’d felt a bit foolish at feeling that way. But it had only lasted a few minutes, until she realized she’d never have to tell anyone. Never have to try to explain it. The moment it occurred to her that it wasn’t anything anyone else had to understand, that it was something just for her and her moon, she accepted it as truth and never looked back. 

Touching herself while the moon is with her doesn’t always feel like making love. Once Harry noticed it, she’d started tracking it and found it’s only when the moon is full. And once Harry’d realized _that,_ she made sure to always know when the next full moon would be. 

Some months, when Harry’s feeling playful, or senses the moon is, the nights leading up to a full moon become an opportunity to show off a little, to tease what’s coming. On those nights, Harry feels so beautiful, getting off on the moon watching, on knowing the moon’s enjoying the show, anticipating the impending lovemaking as excitedly as Harry is. 

Whether Harry’s fucking herself while the moon watches hungrily or fondly or both, or they’re making love on the brightest night each month, it’s both impossible and the most natural thing Harry has ever experienced.

They’re always good together, always so satisfying, but those full moon nights overwhelm Harry with just how _much_ she feels. The need reaches deeper on those nights, the spikes of pleasure so intense they almost turn to pain. And the shimmer that follows – that perfect, soft, bluish glow – on those nights, it washes over Harry and wraps around her like it’s holding her tightly as she falls asleep. 

It’s a bit like being in a long distance relationship where you only get to see your girlfriend once a month. A _really_ long distance relationship. 238,855 miles, to be specific. (That’s just on average though. She can get as close as 225,623 miles. Harry looked it up once. It’s called perigee, and when she’s that close, Harry swears she feels her that much more deeply. Once during a full moon, Harry had come so hard she worried she might pass out, and when she’d looked it up the next morning, she’d found the full moon had coincided with perigee. “A Super Orgasm from the Super Moon!” she’d proudly exclaimed that night, pretending not to see the shimmer flinch as she giggled gleefully.) 

As good as the sex is – as loving and curious and satisfying – it isn’t everything. It never has been. It’s not as though a switch had flipped that first night Harry had discovered physical intimacy could be part of their connection. It hadn’t changed from one thing to another altogether. It had expanded. 

Harry never stopped sharing her musings with the moon. She never stopped reading with her – sometimes silently and sometimes aloud. She never stopped listening to music with her. Never stopped feeling taken care of by her. And she always endeavors to think of ways to give back to her moon just a fraction of what she receives from her.

**It changes again** the night before Harry’s finally moving back to Manchester. 

Halloween night. A full moon. 

A _blue_ moon. 

It’s almost comical how the timing worked out. Or it would be, if it weren’t heartbreaking instead. 

Harry knows she’ll still be able to see the moon in Manchester, but she won’t be so perfectly framed by Harry’s new bedroom window. Harry doesn’t even think she’ll be visible from her bedroom at all. She knows even when she can’t see her, the moon – _her moon_ – will still be there. But Harry worries it will be different enough that it might somehow sever what they have, what they’ve built over the past seven years, especially the last two. 

She’s scared. And she’s hurting. And there’s no one who knows, let alone understands. The only one who does can’t whisper comforting words in her ear or rub soothing circles on her back or run reassuring fingers through her curls. 

But she can send gentle pulses of breathtaking, glistening, blue light through Harry’s window as Harry cries quietly on her bed after she finishes packing, and again as Harry sobs openly after she climaxes, and then again as Harry climbs under the covers, settling on her side so she can fix her gaze on her beloved moon one final time through her window as she falls asleep, willing her whispered dreams for their future to reach across the vast space between them. 

“Goodnight,” she says, her leaden eyelids pulling closed. 

_I love you,_ she realizes. But she doesn’t dare say it. Too afraid it would do nothing but hurt them both. 

Harry can’t see the moon from her new bedroom. 

She can barely see her from one of her living room windows, if she leans out farther than her mum would approve of and cranes her neck. Which is exactly what she’s done every night since moving in. Just to say goodnight. 

It’s not enough. But it’s all she’s had. 

Until tonight. Her first full moon here. 

Harry’s determined to figure out a way for them to make the most of it. She thinks she’s figured out a way to set up a few small mirrors in the living room so she can lie on the couch and see her through that one window.

She can’t wait to show her. 

Can’t wait to see her. 

To feel her again. 

Harry has the mirrors set up well before the sun sets and she can’t bring herself to do anything more than sit anxiously on her couch, waiting for her moon to appear. 

As dusk fades to darkness, Harry’s anxiousness dissolves into excitement. At the first glimpse of moonlight in the mirror, her heart practically leaps out of her chest. 

But it sinks as she adjusts the angle and the image sharpens. 

Because she’s never seen her look so dull. Never. Especially not on a night when she’s supposed to be full and bright. There’s no shimmer, blue or otherwise. She looks practically sallow, and Harry’s heart shatters. 

She kicks the mirror away and screams into the empty darkness that surrounds her, heartbroken and furious at the unfamiliarity of her new flat and the loss of what she’s terrified might have been the love of her life, however unexpected and unlikely the form. 

Unwilling to let her go without more of a fight, Harry stands from the couch and walks to the open window to lean out far enough to see her. She sobs with a mixture of relief and heartache at seeing her in her full form, appearing farther away than ever, but still undeniably there. 

Harry’s heart swells and clenches almost at once as she stares at her love, and she cries out apologies and promises and pleads for forgiveness and patience. Her blubbering must be unintelligible, but she doesn’t care and she can’t stop. Before she knows it, and without meaning to, her pleas transform to desperate, indecipherable professions of love. When she realizes what she’s been shouting – or trying to shout – panic floods her chest. But it only lasts a moment before it transforms to something more like need. And only a moment more before that need evolves into certainty. 

Harry stills, and the silence that follows is somehow more deafening than her yelling had been. 

She inhales a steadying breath and leans out as far as she can, locking her eyes on the moon. Her beautiful, full moon, graceful and proud, doing her best to bathe the cold night sky in her warm glow despite how lonely Harry knows she must be feeling too. 

“I love you,” Harry whispers through a shudder. Then again, after she swallows the pit that had formed in her throat, more clearly, so she’s sure she’ll be heard.

“I love you.”

The second her lips close around the final word, that soft, blue shimmer Harry had worried she’d never see again cascades across her love’s face, followed by a flash of light so bright Harry has to clamp her eyes shut.

When she opens her eyes, hopeful for the first time in weeks, the blue is gone. So is the shimmer. And so is Harry’s hope. 

Bereft, Harry pulls herself back into the room and shuts the window before collapsing in a heap on the floor. She gives into her devastation, her limp body wracked with sobs until suddenly she’s interrupted by a knock at her front door.

She ignores it at first, in no shape to interact with another human, but the knocking grows insistent. 

Fueled by a combination of annoyance and curiosity – she barely even knows anybody in the city – Harry manages to pull herself from the floor and shuffle across the room. 

She swings the door open, ready to guilt whatever stranger is mistakenly disturbing her with her red-rimmed eyes and tear-soaked cheeks, and is greeted by a woman with sandy brown hair and sharp cheeks and the blue-est, most shining eyes she’s ever seen. 

A blue so familiar Harry almost sinks to the floor again. 

Harry’s mouth falls open, but before she can say anything – before she can even begin to imagine what words might be appropriate to try to say – the girl opens her own delicate pink lips. 

“Hiya. I’m Louis.”

There’s a rasp in her voice, like she hasn’t used it in a while, and it makes Harry’s throat go dry. Somehow, though, Harry manages to reach her hand out to grasp the one being offered. 

“Um, hi. ’M Harry.”

Louis smiles warmly and squeezes Harry’s hand, demonstrating no intention to let go within the customary amount of time. 

“D– do you live in the building?” Harry asks. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around, have I?”

“Oh, I just arrived,” Louis says, a hint of a smirk playing across her lips. She squeezes Harry’s hand again, sending a pulse of warmth through Harry that reaches every inch of her and feels both achingly familiar and completely brand new. “Feels a bit like we’ve known each other for ages, though, doesn’t it?” 

It does, Harry thinks, so she nods and brings her other hand up to envelop Louis’ as she tugs her gently across the threshold of her flat. 

Louis kicks the door closed as soon as they’re both inside and Harry’s heart swells. She holds Louis’ gaze as solidly as she holds her hand and she swears she sees a twinkle in Louis’ eye – an actual, honest-to-God twinkle – as the most gorgeous smile Harry’s ever seen fills Louis’ face. Harry’s own lips pull into a wide smile for the first time in over a month and the familiar warmth that had flooded her moments before grows heated. 

She nods again, pulling Louis into her. “I think maybe we have.”

**It ends, and begins again, like this.** With Louis and Harry. 

And when they look up at the next full moon, cuddled together on a bench in the park near Harry’s flat, there’s no shimmer to be seen. No blue remaining. 

It looks to have turned to gold. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed whatever on earth this was. 
> 
> Tumblr post is [here](https://uhoh-but-yeah-alright.tumblr.com/post/636201082780057600) if you're so moved. <3


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